wither

my love flutters by

like a painted butterfly

but deems not to land

though i clothed myself

in spring’s colorful verdure

and sighed sweet perfumes.

what is it i lack?

i watch, forlorn, as he flies

into lily arms.

should i blame my thorns?

those off-putting secret shames

i cannot control?

will there ever be

a butterfly brave enough

to venture a kiss?

until then, soft tears

glisten on my petal cheeks

like the twilight dew.